Chapter Text
July, 67 ADD
THE CLOTHING OF DISTRICT 12 had an unmistakable feel, rough and scratchy against the skin, as though the very fabric resisted the people who wore it. It was prone to fraying, thinning at the elbows, unraveling at the hems before the season had properly changed. Some of the older folk in the Seam swore that the material was cheap by design, manufactured to degrade so that the people of 12 would be forced to replace it, funneling whatever meager earnings they had back into the tailor’s shop. Others believed that it was simply the way of things— poor districts received poor-quality goods. There was no grand scheme behind it, just a cruel and practical truth. Either way, the tailor shop was one of the more frequented establishments in the merchant section of town. There was no way around it— clothes were a necessity. And when they inevitably fell apart, there was only one place to go.
The Elsington family lived directly above the shop, their modest home pressed into the attic of the building. The first floor was given entirely to the trade, rows of wooden shelves and mannequins displaying half-finished garments, bolts of fabric stacked in corners, spools of thread lined neatly along the counter where Fraser Elsington, the tailor, took measurements and arranged fittings. Behind the shop, a narrow staircase led to the attic space where the family of four lived. It was a simple home— two bedrooms, a small bathroom, and a kitchen just large enough to fit a rickety wooden table and two chairs. There was no grand dining space, no sitting room to entertain guests. Just enough space for sleeping, eating, and little else. It was enough. It had to be.
The Elsingtons had a long-standing arrangement with the Mellarks, one that had been established well before Colette was born. It was a quiet, mutually beneficial system— clothing in exchange for bread and pastries. It saved them both the trouble of exchanging coin, and in the end, the money would have ended up in each other’s pockets anyway. It was part of the reason why the Elsingtons were among the healthier-looking families in town. They had a reliable food source, an enviable luxury in a district where so many lived on the edge of starvation. Of course, there were whispers about it— resentment from those who had no such arrangements, those who had to scavenge and scrape by for their meals. But business was business. The tailor needed bread, and the baker needed clothes. It was as simple as that.
Each morning, Colette was the one to fetch the bread. She would wake early, just as the bakery was opening, a woven basket in her arms, filled with the freshly mended clothes and aprons that the Mellarks had worn thin. With three boys in the house, the family went through clothing fast. Knees ripped open from rough play, aprons stained and frayed from days spent at the ovens. Colette had never minded the task. In fact, she rather liked it, especially since it meant seeing Peeta. He was different from his brothers, softer around the edges, polite where they were coarse, kind where they were cruel.
“Good morning, Peet,” she would greet him in a voice light and lilted, setting the neat stack of clothing on the wooden counter.
The bakery, like most buildings in Twelve, was old, crumbling from the inside out. The district put its money where it mattered—to the mines, to the industry that kept it running. The homes and businesses of Twelve were of little concern. So long as people had a place to sleep, a place to trade, a place to work, that was enough. The buildings sagged under years of neglect, the wood swollen from damp seasons, the stone walls cracking with age. The bakery smelled of warm yeast and flour, but underneath it, there was the unmistakable scent of coal dust that no one in Twelve could ever fully wash away.
“Hi, Collie,” Peeta would reply, sliding three fresh loaves of bread into her basket. If he was feeling particularly generous— and if his mother was not watching— he would slip a few cookies beneath the loaves, half-broken and slightly crumbled, but sweet all the same. Sugar was a rarity, rationed so carefully that most sweets hardly tasted sweet at all. But to Colette, even the faintest trace of it was enough to savor. Peeta knew he would get a slap from his mother if she found out, but he took the risk anyway. He had always liked Colette, more than he should, more than he admitted to himself. She was pretty in a way that was effortless, and she was kind to him in a way that felt rare in their world.
“How’s Lily?” Peeta asked once, catching Colette off guard.
It was not the kind of question most people in Twelve asked. Survival did not leave much room for pleasantries, for concerns beyond one’s own immediate needs.
“She’s good,” Colette answered, surprised by his interest, but grateful for it. She broke off a piece of one of the half-burnt cookies and popped it into her mouth, savoring the moment.
Lily had not been expected, nor particularly wanted. The Elsingtons had struggled enough as it was with one child, and when Wisteria, Colette’s mother, found herself pregnant again at nearly forty, panic ensued. There was no room in their home, no extra food to spare, no energy left for raising another child. When Lily arrived, wailing and colicky, Wisteria withdrew, retreating into herself in a way that made Colette feel as though she had lost her mother entirely. It was Colette who took on the role of caretaker, rocking the baby to sleep at night, soothing her cries when no one else would.
She had given up the opportunity to teach, turning down the job at the schoolhouse because there was no one else to watch Lily. Her mother had resigned herself to a haze of indifference, her father too preoccupied with the shop. The responsibility fell to Colette, and though she never said it aloud, there were nights she resented it. Not Lily— not her innocent baby sister— but the weight of it all. The exhaustion that pressed against her skull, the nights spent sleepless, pacing the small attic with Lily in her arms.
When she returned home that morning, stepping through the front entrance of the shop, the familiar chime of the bell greeted her. Her father was at the counter, counting the morning’s earnings, his expression pinched in concentration. Business was always better before the Reaping. Parents wanted their children to look their best, wanted them to stand out for something other than their hunger. Colette had already prepared her dress— a modest white sundress, the fabric patterned with small florals, cinched at the waist with a delicate corset tie. It was one of the few things she had sewn for herself, and even then, she had taken care to use scraps, unwilling to waste precious material on something as self-indulgent as personal vanity.
“Sourdough?” her father asked, glancing up as she set the basket down.
“And wheat,” she answered. “Some cookies, too.”
Fraser scoffed, scrunching his nose. “Burnt, I assume?” He knew the Mellarks’ habits well. The wheat bread was always burnt, the sourdough always cooked to perfection.
“Unfortunately,” Colette muttered. “I’ll save you half of the sourdough.”
That was how it had been since Lily’s birth. Colette took the worst portions for herself, saving the best for her parents, as though it might somehow repair what had been broken. A futile effort, but one she could not stop herself from making.
Then, as if on cue, Lily’s cries rang out from the bedroom above. Colette felt the weight of exhaustion settle deeper in her bones. Without another word, she climbed the stairs, moving to her sister’s crib and lifting the wailing infant into her arms.
She pressed Lily against her shoulder, patting her back in slow, rhythmic motions. Her eyelids burned, her body begged for rest, but she had long since learned to ignore it.
Someday, she thought, she would sleep. But not tonight.
And not anytime soon.
The corseted waist had seemed like a good idea when Colette stitched it together, threading her needle through the delicate fabric with an image in her mind— an image of herself, standing tall, confident, maybe even beautiful. She had used the last of her hair ties to plait two small braids the night before, hoping for soft waves when she let them loose. For once, she just wanted to feel pretty, like she belonged to something more than the soot-stained streets and hand-me-down dresses of District 12.
But now, standing in the square, the dress felt like a noose tightening around her ribs. She hadn't accounted for the way her breath would hitch in her throat, the way her stomach would twist into knots so tight she thought she might be sick. The second her name left the orange-haired woman's lips, pronounced with such lightness that it might as well have been a whisper on the wind, Colette felt the air leave her lungs. It was as if she were no longer a person, just a name, just a slip of paper pulled from a glass bowl.
How could the woman say her name like it was nothing? Like it was just another piece in the Capitol's twisted game?
She had never wanted to run more than she did in that moment. She could tear at the buttons on the back of her dress, rip away the fabric that bound her ribs so tight, and flee barefoot toward the wire fence that separated District 12 from the forest beyond. She knew what happened to those who tried to escape. She had heard the stories, whispered warnings about tongues cut out and bodies dragged back as examples. But was that fate really any worse than the one waiting for her in the arena?
Death was death, no matter how you dressed it up.
Colette swallowed, her pulse hammering as she forced herself to move toward the stage. The weight of the entire district's eyes settled on her, suffocating, pressing into her skin like invisible hands. She didn't dare look back at first, afraid that if she saw her parents, she would break completely. But the urge was too strong. She turned her head, searching for them in the crowd.
Her mother, Wisteria, stood frozen, her hands clenched together so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Her expression was a portrait of heartbreak, silent but screaming. Her father, Fraser, held a sleeping Lily against his chest, his face as impassive as it had been for months, but Colette swore she saw something—just the barest shimmer of grief in his eyes.
Lily.
Who would be there for her? Who would rock her to sleep when she cried? Who would sing her lullabies when the nightmares came?
Colette turned away before she could start crying, her steps slow and deliberate as she climbed onto the stage. The escort clapped her hands together, her bright, manufactured smile completely out of place. "Wonderful, wonderful!" she cheered, as if she were announcing a festival rather than a death sentence.
Colette clenched her fists. What exactly was so wonderful? That the Capitol had found new lambs for the slaughter? That another pair of children from District 12 would soon be paraded around like circus animals before they were thrown into an arena to die?
Then came the name of the male tribute.
Everett.
Colette recognized him instantly. He was only thirteen, just a boy, as frail as any child who had grown up in the Seam. His mother had often brought him to the shop, asking Colette to lengthen his pants as much as possible, stretching every bit of fabric to its limits. He wore those same pants now, frayed at the edges, patched in places where the material had given up entirely. She had sewn those stitches herself.
And now, he was going to die.
No.
She didn't want to think about it, but how could she not? If it came down to the two of them, what would she do? She wanted to protect him, but what good was that if she had no survival skills of her own? She had spent her life threading needles, not wielding weapons. She had killed mice in the tailor shop, squashed spiders that scuttled across the wooden floorboards, but she had always hesitated. Even then, they had just been creatures trying to survive, much like she was now.
And if she lived? If, by some miracle, she walked out of that arena?
She swore she would never lay another mouse trap for as long as she lived.
As the Peacekeepers gripped her shoulders and guided her off the stage, her mind reeled, caught somewhere between the reality of the moment and the impending nightmare of the future.
She had gotten her hopes up when Effie Trinket mentioned that they had a mentor.
Haymitch Abernathy.
The only living victor District 12 had ever known. He had won the Quarter Quell— against twice the number of tributes. Surely, that meant he had some kind of wisdom to offer, some key to survival.
But an hour into their train ride to the Capitol, Colette was starting to believe otherwise.
Haymitch hadn't even bothered to greet them. The first time she saw him, he was stumbling out of his compartment, refilling his glass with liquor as if it were water. The rich, sharp scent burned her nose, and she turned her head slightly, wrinkling it in distaste.
Everett watched with wide eyes as the man nearly spilled his drink, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass.
Colette had heard rumors about their so-called mentor. That he was a drunk, a mess. That he had never truly left the arena.
But she had hoped, just for a second, that they had been wrong.
“Any words of encouragement?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral. "Or are you just here to drink your days away?"
Haymitch barely reacted. Instead, he barked out a laugh, sharp and short, before tipping his glass back and downing the liquor in one swift gulp. Then, as if just realizing she had spoken, he gave her a slow, assessing look, his gaze heavy with amusement.
"I recommend the whiskey," he slurred. "But you seem like the fruity type."
Colette's lip curled slightly, unimpressed. She had never even had a sip of alcohol. There was still so much she hadn't done.
Without another word, she took Everett’s hand and turned on her heel, leading him toward one of the unoccupied compartments. She could still hear Haymitch behind her, muttering something under his breath, but she ignored him. If he didn’t want to help them, fine. She would figure this out herself.
As the automatic doors slid shut behind them, Everett finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm going to die first."
Colette's stomach twisted. "That's not happening," she said, too sharp, too firm. The back of her throat burned. "I promise, Everett, you will live."
"You can't promise that," he said simply, staring down at his patched-up pants. "You have a better chance than I do."
She swallowed hard. "I won't leave you," she said. "When we get in the arena, we stick together. We have a better chance that way."
It was the only thing she could think to say, the only plan that made any sense. Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.
Colette had expected her stylist to be cut from the same cloth as the other Capitolites— frivolous, exaggerated, drowning in a perfume of excess and self-indulgence. She had pictured someone like Effie Trinket, someone whose only concern was how best to mold her into a vision of grotesque Capitol beauty, all the while ignoring the very real terror beating just beneath the surface of her skin. But Cinna was none of those things. His presence was quiet, measured, deliberate in a way that made her feel less like a piece of meat being prepared for display and more like a person. It was such a foreign kindness that she almost didn’t know how to react to it.
She had been prepared to bite back at any unwanted adjustments, to tolerate hands that tugged and twisted her body as if she were nothing more than a mannequin. Instead, Cinna treated her with an understated respect, as if her input was worth considering. He never spoke down to her, never pushed or pried. There was no false Capitol charm, no sickly sweet laughter masking something cruel. Just quiet professionalism and a glimmer of something she couldn’t quite place in his eyes when he met her gaze. It wasn’t pity— no, she had seen enough of that to recognize it. It was understanding.
And perhaps that was why she found herself enamored with him.
Cinna, somehow, had known that she came from a family of tailors. Maybe he had done his research, or maybe he simply paid attention to details in a way others did not. Either way, it made the next four hours bearable in a way she hadn’t expected. He spoke to her like an equal, sharing his design ideas, explaining his process, allowing her to offer her own thoughts. It was clear her suggestions wouldn’t truly alter the final product, but he still listened, still made her feel as if her voice mattered.
That was a rarity. Most of her conversations back home had been with Peeta in the bakery, where flour and sugar dusted every surface, or with her baby sister, who only knew how to cry and sometimes laugh. Now, she was speaking to a man who created art with his hands and was willing to acknowledge that she did too, in her own way.
Everett’s stylist, Portia, seemed to work in tandem with Cinna, their collaboration seamless. The two of them crafted costumes that mirrored each other, twin flames in the dark. Their outfits were woven with charcoal-black fabric that shimmered like molten magma, tiny details of glowing red giving the illusion of burning embers. Colette’s dress was a slip of a thing, hugging her body before melting into a cascade of flickering reds and oranges at the hem, as if she were dissolving into fire with every step she took. Everett’s attire mirrored hers— a vest and dress pants constructed from the same material, the subtle glow of embers licking at the edges of his seams.
Cinna slicked her golden hair back, pressing a mixture of black and red glitter into her scalp. In the artificial light of the prep room, it gleamed like fresh coal, the red catching every movement. When she finally looked at herself in the mirror, her breath caught. Her blue eyes were electric, sharpened by the dark, smoky hues that Cinna had brushed onto her lids. She had never worn makeup before— not like this. Her mother had always dismissed the idea, saying she didn’t need it. But now, staring at herself, she wasn’t sure if she agreed or not.
For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like a child. She felt like a woman. A cruel revelation, given that she might not live long enough to understand what that truly meant.
Effie, of course, was beside herself with admiration. She swept toward them with a delighted gasp, fingers trailing over the delicate, ember-like fabric of Colette’s sleeve. “Oh, Cinna, you have done it again!” Effie cooed, eyes alight with Capitol glee. “Oh, they look stunning. You, my dear, look like one of us.”
One of us.
Colette barely stopped herself from flinching, from recoiling at the mere suggestion. Her stomach twisted, nausea creeping up her throat, but she swallowed it down. She refused to let Effie see her falter. Instead, she cleared her throat, forcing her expression into something neutral. The weight of the costume suddenly felt suffocating. She wasn’t a person to them anymore— she was a spectacle, a piece of artwork to be paraded in front of the masses. Her humanity was already being stripped away, layer by layer, and she had barely even left the preparation room.
Her gaze drifted across the room, scanning the crowd, until her eyes landed on someone who was no older than she was. Finnick Odair. The youngest Victor in history. He was lounging against a wall, his posture casual, his expression unreadable. She wondered if he had felt like this, too, the first time he had been dressed up and paraded for the Capitol’s amusement. Or was this feeling reserved only for the female tributes?
Everett, beside her, was largely ignored, lost in the glitz of Colette’s transformation. Effie seemed oblivious, as always, too caught up in the details of the presentation to notice anything else. It was Colette’s dress that dazzled, Colette’s face that drew the most attention. She was used to going unnoticed in Twelve, but here, she was being picked apart like a display in a museum.
What surprised her most was Haymitch.
Their so-called mentor had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours either half-drunk or fully unconscious, but now, he finally seemed to notice her discomfort. Whether it was due to some scrap of sobriety or just a deep-seated irritation at Effie, she didn’t know. But either way, he intervened, stepping between them and waving Effie off with a grumbled, “Give the kid some room to breathe.”
Colette exhaled quietly, gripping Everett’s hand for something solid.
Haymitch barely spared her a glance, but when he did, there was something appraising in his expression. He studied her, then Everett, then back again, before sighing through his nose. “Make sure to smile and wave while you’re out there. Act like you want to be here.”
Noted.
She didn’t reply, only squeezed Everett’s hand a little tighter.
For the first time since they had met him, Haymitch almost seemed like he cared. Or maybe he was just regretting not bringing his flask, missing the burn of alcohol dulling his edges. Colette wondered what it would be like, to drink enough to forget, to let it all slip away into a haze. But she couldn’t afford that luxury. Not when everything depended on how she performed in the next week.
Haymitch had said as much that morning, slumped at the breakfast table with his mug of coffee— coffee that, Colette suspected, was not entirely coffee. “If you want food and water like this in the arena, you have to put on a show this week for the sponsors,” he had muttered, voice rough from too many drinks and too little sleep.
Colette had latched onto that thread, pressing him for more, searching for something— anything— that might give her a chance. And now, standing there in this dress, in this skin that no longer felt like her own, she understood what he meant.
Colette stood stiff-backed beside Everett as their chariot glided through the Capitol streets, her fingers interwoven tightly with his. The crowd was a sea of dazzling lights and painted faces, all smiling, all waving, all looking at her like she was some kind of spectacle rather than a girl marching toward her execution. She did what she was supposed to— she smiled, lifted her chin, and waved in elegant sweeps like Effie had instructed, but the more she forced herself to play the part, the more wrong it felt.
There was something creeping up her throat, a sensation that burned like she had swallowed something sharp and jagged. A constriction that made it feel as though the air she was breathing wasn’t enough. Her vision blurred for a second, her pulse thundering in her ears. A panic attack. She knew what those felt like. The world getting too small, her lungs getting too tight. But as she dug her nails into her forearm, willing herself to focus, she felt the raised bumps beneath her fingertips. They were everywhere. Spreading.
Everett must have noticed the way her body tensed, because his grip on her hand tightened. She had to keep it together, just a little longer. The chariot ride ended soon enough, and she barely made it to the ground before she was clawing at her arms, breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.
“Oh, dear,” came Effie’s horrified voice, the sharp clack of her heels stopping abruptly as she recoiled in disgust. One of her manicured hands flew up to her mouth, fingers skimming the metallic gold lipstick she had carefully applied earlier. “That looks positively dreadful. What happened?”
It didn’t escape Colette that Effie’s tone wasn’t laced with concern so much as it was worry about whatever this was being contagious. Colette could see the way her painted lips curled, the way she took a measured step back to keep distance between them.
Everett was less reserved. His dark eyes were wide, staring openly at her arms, but he didn’t pull away. His fingers remained in hers, warm and grounding, though they trembled slightly.
Cinna was the only one who reacted like a normal person. He stepped forward immediately, his steady hands gripping her shoulders as he guided her away from the crowd. “Can you speak?”
Colette opened her mouth, but it took more effort than she was used to. Finally, she managed, “I think so.”
Her voice was hoarse, as though something had lodged itself deep inside her throat and refused to leave. That was all Cinna needed to hear to put the pieces together. An allergic reaction. But to what? If it had been the makeup, the material of her outfit, it would have happened much earlier. That left only one real culprit— the horses.
It made sense. District 12 didn’t have horses. She had never been near one before. And now, after standing beside two of them for the better part of an hour, it was clear her body was reacting with full-blown vengeance.
A heavy sigh came from behind them as Haymitch trailed after them, his pace unhurried, though there was an edge to his tone. “Just my fucking luck. One of my tributes dying before they even step foot in the arena.”
Effie gasped sharply. “Haymitch! Really, must you always be so crude?”
“I call it like I see it,” he muttered.
“She’ll be fine,” Effie huffed, lifting her chin. “The medics on staff will clear up that unsightly rash in no time.”
Haymitch cast her a sideways glance, unimpressed. “I think we have a bigger problem than just the rash.”
Colette wasn’t sure what problem he meant. Maybe it was the fact that she could have just died before even stepping foot in the Games. Or maybe it was that she now had yet another weakness to add to the ever-growing list of reasons she wasn’t going to survive.
Either way, the problem was out of her hands. The moment they got her to the medics, they injected something into her arm, the needle piercing her skin with a sharp, burning sting. The sensation in her throat eased within minutes, though her arms and neck were still red and inflamed. A thick, white ointment was slathered over the worst of it, but even as it was applied, she could feel the need to scratch bubbling beneath her skin.
Everett refused to leave her side the entire time. She hadn’t expected him to, but she also wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. This wasn’t exactly reassuring behavior for a District 12 tribute to be displaying.
Later, back in her room, she had changed into pajamas— silky satin, too large for her frame, but loose enough not to rub against her irritated skin. She had settled beside Everett in bed, her fingers absentmindedly combing through his curls as he drifted off to sleep. The holographic wall projected a starry sky, comets streaking across the deep void, and Colette found herself watching them, wondering if this was the last time she’d get to see something so peaceful.
Maybe this was all she would get. A handful of months with Lily, a single week with Everett. That was it. That was her life. And now it belonged to people who would never know her, never care about her, only watch her suffer for their entertainment.
The thought made her want to scream.
A knock at the door pulled her out of her spiraling thoughts. She carefully slid Everett’s head off her lap, moving to the door on silent feet before pressing the button to open it.
Haymitch stood there, slightly off-kilter, smelling faintly of alcohol and exhaustion.
“I didn’t hide the liquor,” she said dryly, arms crossing over her chest. “You probably drank it all.”
He smirked. “I’m aware. They refill the stock every morning, so I make sure to finish it all before then.”
That was… a logic she couldn’t argue with. “You don’t use it, you lose it.”
“Exactly.”
A pause stretched between them, thick and unmoving, before he finally spoke again. “You still breathing alright?”
“If I wasn’t,” she said, tilting her head, “I’d be dead by now.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re not.” He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it caught her off guard. And then, of course, he added, “Would be a bad look on me as your mentor if you died before the Games began.”
There it was.
“I’ll be sure to save the humiliation for the arena, then,” she quipped, though she couldn’t quite summon the same bite as before.
Haymitch studied her, his gaze flickering down to the marks on her arms. He frowned slightly, as though disappointed, before shaking his head. “Get some sleep.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Colette lingered in the doorway for a moment before stepping back inside, letting the door slide shut behind her.
As she lay back down, staring at the glowing projection of the stars, she found herself reevaluating her earlier assumptions. Haymitch was an ass. That much was obvious. But maybe, just maybe, he cared in his own way. Maybe it was buried beneath layers of alcohol and cynicism, but it was there.
She wished he’d show it a little more.
But if she had to settle for crumbs, then she would take them. Because if anyone knew what it took to survive this nightmare, it was him. And if she had any chance of making it home to Lily, she needed to learn every damn thing he had to teach her.